


Matches to Paper Dolls

by kay_emm_gee



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drabble, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4022914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy and Clarke are in a vicious cycle they don’t know how to break, or rather, this messed up thing of theirs is something they may not want to stop doing at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matches to Paper Dolls

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song Matches to Paper Dolls by Dessa which everyone should listen to immediately.

The rush of the subway car roars loudly in her ears as she flies across the city deep under the bustling late-night streets. She would’ve walked, except for the rain. It had been coming down in sheets when she left the bar.

If Clarke had walked, though, she would not be on her way to his apartment. The summer air, though humid and hot, would have forced her to breathe and reconsider. Plus, walking would have required all of her attention—thanks to the four gin and tonics she had sucked down—so there wouldn’t have been an opportunity to text him.

On the subway, though, she could sit, and pull out her phone, and stare at his number, fingers hovering unavoidably over the keyboard. The crackling intercom announcement of their progress drowns out the whoosh of her message being sent.

_Too late now_.

He doesn’t respond, but even in her drunken haze she knows he has seen it and is waiting for her. He is that predictable. Just like her, she supposes, even after all this time.

Glaring at the raucous group of college kids down the car, Clarke flexes her toes, considering the health risks of taking off her high heels. There is something sticky on the floor a few inches from her, and she wrinkles her nose, grinding her teeth against the pain in her contained feet. When the subway jerks to a halt at his stop, she stumbles as she stands. One of the frat bros laughs and whistles, so she throws a finger over her shoulder, ignoring the disapproving huff of the wrinkled woman sitting in the crossfire. Not many people get off with her, so Clarke can easily see the familiar graffiti scrawled across the walls of the subway station. The tags progress in the same order as they had a year ago on her first visit to his place, back when this thing had seemed harmless. Obviously she hadn’t been away long enough to forget even inch of this place, not that her weak resolve was any surprise.

Clarke swears under her breath through the entire four-flight climb to his apartment. Why he insists on staying in this place is beyond her, something they had argued about last fall when thoughts of moving in together haunted their every conversation. Squeezing her eyes shut briefly, her stomach lurches, because the feelings from another era between them make her queasy.

Or it could be the gin.

His door is cracked open, letting a thin sliver of yellow light strike across the otherwise shadowed hallway. As Clarke walks inside, loudly flinging off her heels, she inhales, nerves fraying at the mixed scent of his aftershave and musty books. Without looking for him—because he’ll come out in his own time—she pads into the kitchen. Struggling to reach for a glass, which he obnoxiously insists on keeping on the top shelf of the cabinet next to the sink, she feels a warm hand slip around her waist. His teasing whisper into her ear sends shivers down her tense spine. As she fills the cup, then gulps down much-needed water, his fingers work on the zipper of her tight black dress.

By the time she is done, he is pressing provoking kisses across her bare shoulder blades. Her skin knows his, and it sings for his insistent touches that he gives with poorly hid affection. Overwhelmed, she can’t help but slam the glass down into the sink. His chuckle makes her vibrate, anger tingling in her limbs, and Clarke jerks around, scowling at him. Without missing a beat, he kisses her, and like always, everything but him fades away.

They proceed as usual, discarding clothes as they stumble through his apartment, heading for the inevitable ending of moans and tangled limbs in his charcoal-grey sheets.  By now, there should be indents of their path grooved into his hardwood floors, because it is always the same: kissing against the sink, undressing in the living room, exploring each other’s bodies in the hallway, and sinking into one another on his always-rumpled bed.

Clarke takes their pattern in stride, both of them being creatures of habit and such. Bellamy, though, would take offense at being called predictable. She knows he likes to think that he is chaotic and spontaneous and devil-may-care. Bullshit. Bellamy Blake is made up of nothing but unchangeable fragments: history buff, proudly stubborn, loves his sister beyond measure, loyal to a fault. His traits are as fixed as the freckles scattered across his heated skin; more are always added, but once there, they never change. From the start, Clarke knew this about him, and that she was the same way, but it wasn’t supposed to be a problem, because they weren’t supposed to fall in love. And they certainly were never supposed to stay in love after everything else between them had fallen apart.

The love remains, even after all the shouting and stinging accusations and guiltless apologies, even after months apart. She knows it is there, because she sees it in his eyes tonight as he pushes into her, though he quickly drops his damp forehead to her sweaty shoulder to hide it. She hears it in the way she breathes his name coming down from the high that he drives her to so easily, like he is the only word she knows. They are fucked up like that. Every other thing in their lives could go to shit and yet this messy, indefinite, illicit thing is still their center.

After lying breathless next to him for a while, Clarke sits up and gathers up her sweaty hair, going to move off the bed and away from him. This, her leaving, is the next step, always. Tonight, though, Bellamy snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her back to him. She doesn’t say anything, every part of her screaming to get back up, even as her mind chants  _stay_  when she feels his skin press intimately against hers. Bellamy doesn’t say anything either, just tightens his grip at noticing her tenseness. Closing her eyes, Clarke counts her breaths, slowly willing her body to relax. His gesture is so out-of-pattern, so revolutionary that it shifts her axis, making her feel as if this vicious cycle they have been in somehow has begun to spin in the right direction again. His embrace  makes her feel warm and dizzy, like she is becoming something more than just herself.

Or. 

Or that could just be the gin talking. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr (kay-emm-gee)!


End file.
